A Quest of Heroes (Book #1 in the Sorcerer's Ring)

in them. Perhaps it was because
he was different from them, didn’t look like them, or speak with their
mannerisms; he didn’t even dress like them, his father reserving the best—the
purple and scarlet robes, the gilded weapons—for his brothers, while Thor was
left wearing the coarsest of rags.
    Nonetheless, Thor made the best
of what he had, finding a way to make his clothes fit, tying the frock with a
sash around his waist, and, now that summer was here, cutting off the sleeves
to allow his toned arms to be caressed by the breezes. These were matched by
coarse linen pants—his only pair—and boots made of the poorest leather, laced
up his shins. They were hardly the leather of his brothers’ shoes, but he made
them work. He wore the typical uniform of a herder.
    But he hardly had the typical
demeanor. Thor stood tall and lean, with a proud jaw, noble chin, high
cheekbones and gray eyes, looking like a displaced warrior. His straight, brown
hair fell back in waves on his head, just past his ears, and behind them, his
eyes glistened like a minnow in the light.
    Thor’s brothers would be allowed
to sleep in this morning, be given a hearty meal, sent off for the Selection
with the finest weapons and his father’s blessing—while he would not even be
allowed to attend. He had tried to raise the issue with his father once. It had
not gone well. His father had summarily ended the conversation, and he had not
tried again. It just wasn’t fair.
    Thor was determined to reject the
fate his father had planned for him: at the first sign of the royal caravan, he
would race back to the house, confront his father, and, like it or not, make
himself known to the King’s Men. He would stand for selection with the others.
His father could not stop him. He felt a knot in his stomach at the thought of
it.
    The first sun rose higher, and
when the second sun began to rise, a mint green, adding a layer of light to the
purple sky, Thor spotted them.
    He stood upright, hairs on end,
electrified. There, on the horizon, came the faintest outline of a horse-drawn
carriage, its wheels kicking dust into the sky. His heart beat faster as
another came into view; then another. Even from here the golden carriages
gleamed in the suns, like silver-backed fish leaping from the water.
    By the time he counted twelve of
them, he could wait no longer. Heart pounding in his chest, forgetting his
flock for the first time in his life, Thor turned and stumbled down the hill,
determined to stop at nothing until he made himself known.
    *
    Thor barely stopped to catch his
breath as he sped down the hills, through the trees, scratched by branches and
not caring. He reached a clearing and saw his village spread out below: a sleepy
country town, packed with one-story, white clay homes with thatched roofs.
There were but several dozen families amongst them. Smoke rose from chimneys as
most were up early preparing their morning meal. It was an idyllic place, just
far enough—a full day’s ride—from King’s Court to deter passersby. Just another
farming village on the edge of the Ring, another cog in the wheel of the
Western Kingdom.
    Thor burst down the final
stretch, into the village square, kicking up dirt as he went. Chickens and dogs
ran out of his way, and an old woman, squatting outside her home before a
cauldron of bubbling water, hissed at him.
    “Slow down, boy!” she screeched
as he raced past, stirring dust into her fire.
    But Thor would not slow—not for
her, not for anybody. He turned down one side street, then another, twisting
and turning the way he knew by heart, until he reached home.
    It was a small, nondescript
dwelling, like all the others, with its white clay walls and angular, thatched
roof. Like most, its single room was divided, his father sleeping on one side,
and his three brothers on the other; unlike most, it had a small chicken coop
in the back, and it was here that Thor was exiled to sleep. At first he’d
bunked with his brothers; but over time they had grown bigger and meaner and
more exclusive, and made a show of not leaving him room. Thor had been hurt,
but now he relished his own space, preferring to be away from their presence.
It just confirmed for him that he was the exile in his family that he already
knew he was.
    Thor ran to his front door and
burst through it without stopping.
    “Father!” he screamed, gasping
for breath. “The Silver! They’re coming!”
    His father and three brothers
sat, hunched